


Destroying Venus

by JolieFolie



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types, Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris, Millennium Trilogy - Stieg Larsson, The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo (2011)
Genre: Abduction, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Barebacking, Brainwashing, Daddy Issues, F/M, Fear, Illegal Activities, Kidnapping, Knifeplay, Loss of Control, Loss of Innocence, Loss of Virginity, May/December Relationship, Non-Consensual Kissing, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Non-Consensual Touching, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Older Man/Younger Woman, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Peeping, Rape, Ravishment, Serial Killers, Urination, Video Cameras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-14
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2019-05-06 22:04:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14657145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JolieFolie/pseuds/JolieFolie
Summary: You're 18 years old and you're shopping for a graduation dress. Unbeknownst to you, the store owner is a serial killer who decides he wants you all to himself.(His name is Martin Vanger because I've wanted to write a fic with him, his affinity for brunettes and his sex torture basement ever since I read TGwtDT. Visually, I'm pretending he looks like Hanni)I would classify this as erotic horror.





	Destroying Venus

Vanger’s Bridal is the biggest wedding/bridesmaid/grad dress store in Toronto. That kind of shit doesn’t matter to you, but it is the closest dress store to your high school, and you’re skipping gym to come here, so that means you only have about half an hour to spend dicking around in this actual store. You feel totally overwhelmed by the prospect of having to pick out a dress. Part of you is seriously considering renting a tuxedo if this shit doesn’t work out, although your mom really wants you to look ‘like a girl’ for once. But you’re 18 now, you can do whatever you want!

The store is super busy. You use the bathroom first to make sure you look semi-presentable and to pep talk yourself for social interaction before agreeing to meet a sales rep. The blonde saleslady—she introduced herself as Bedelia—is pretty quick at measuring your bust, waist and hips, so maybe you have a shot in hell at making it back to school in time for French.

 She types your measurements into the computer near the change rooms and asks you what colour you have in mind—

“Black,” you reply automatically.

You almost know what she’s going to say before she says it. “Black isn’t a colour, it’s a shade.”

But then a tall, fair-haired man in a light-coloured suit saunters over. His mere presence is intimidating and you have no idea what he will say. “’Black is not only a colour but also a light _.’_ Henri Matisse.”

Wow, not only does he quote some famous artist like he’s reading a horoscope, but he does it in a Swedish accent.

Bedelia clasps her hands in front of her deferentially.

He nods respectfully to her and then looks at you and offers his hand. His eyes are startling, like wolves’ eyes. “I’m Martin Vanger. And Bedelia is our most valuable member of the sales team.”

You shake his hand—his handshake is so compelling it disrupts your sense of gravity for a second. You wonder what kind of trouble you’re in that the owner of the place is talking to a nobody like you. Did Bedelia hit some sort of panic button? “Nice to meet you, Mr. Vanger.” You introduce yourself using your first and last names since that’s what he did. You hope he doesn’t give your name to the police or something. Despite your anxiety, you remind yourself you’ve done nothing wrong.

He looks at Bedelia and asks her what you’re here for; she responds that you need a grad dress.

“University?” he asks you, his face politely stoic.

“High school,” you say, your face growing only slightly warm.

“Oh,” he says, unfazed. “You look older.”

You’ll be going to university in the Fall, and you’re scared of looking like a lost little Freshman. Also, part of you secretly wishes and hopes that you exude maturity. You can’t help it—you beam at his compliment.

He turns to Bedelia and smiles, amused. “Aren’t young women a delight? They’re the only ones who glow when you say that.” He puts a gentle hand on her shoulder. Are they having an affair or something? “Bedelia, of course, isn’t a day over 25. And I am older than water. Then again,” he continues. “Was it not Coco Chanel who said, ‘one can be gorgeous at thirty, charming at forty, and irresistible for the rest of your life’?”

Bedelia ducks her head and waves off his comment with a languid hand; she takes herself too seriously to smile.

Neither he nor Bedelia look older than 50.

They exude a kind of elegance that doesn’t come from wearing fancy clothes, and part of you regrets coming here. You’ve been a legal adult for barely a month, wondering how the hell you’re going to pay for some dress let alone four years of university. Meanwhile, Mr. Vanger and Bedelia are probably rolling in money every night, laughing at their customers’ empty pockets. Both of them are super intimidating.

But you can do this. You’re an adult now, and at university you’ll have to take care of yourself on your own. Better start practicing now.

“Matisse also said that only while painting did he believe in God,” Mr. Vanger says. “Likewise, the only time I can make a similar claim is when one of my creations finds the perfect home. I trust Bedelia has helped you find something to your tastes?”

He’s barely registered the hint of disappointment in your face before he disappears and reappears with a single, black dress. He must have glanced at the measurements that Bedelia typed into the computer. He could’ve also eyeballed you, but it’s eerie to think that a man could size you up so quickly and accurately.

You try on the dress in the change room, but you’re too shy to come out and show them what it looks like. There’s a sign in the change room saying  _ABSOLUTELY NO VIDEORECORDING PERMITTED_ but you pull out your phone and take a quick photo in the mirror so you can show your mom what this dress looks like.

It’s actually pretty cool, it’s sleek and long with a slit up the side. The neckline goes straight across and there are two tiny spaghetti straps. Pure sophistication without a hint of girlishness. You definitely look older than 18 in the dress and you like it. Maybe one of your friends’ older brothers will ask you to slow dance at the grad dinner/dance! Part of you wants to lose your virginity before going to university… and if you do lose it, the night of grad would be the most romantic. But part of you is scared of having sex for the first time. You wish you were more comfortable with your body…

When you come out wearing your street clothes, Bedelia asks why you didn’t show her what the dress looked like. You explain that you’re actually in a rush and need to head back for class.

Mr. Vanger walks you to the checkout counter and frees Bedelia to help another anxious customer. All the other customers—who are all women—are glancing at you curiously, probably wondering what makes you so special that the owner is taking the time out of his busy day to personally help you.

On the ceiling above the cash register, there is a camera pointed downward, probably to record anyone who has the bright idea of stealing money. Mr. Vanger seems to be running a pretty efficient establishment and his employees look like they work hard; you hope no one would steal from them.

“You have free period in school?” Mr. Vanger asks, his Swedish accent slipping out a bit thicker than it previously had. Maybe, ordinarily, he purposely tries to make himself sound more North American? Why would he hide something so musically beautiful?

“Um… skipping gym,” you reply, deciding that honesty is the best policy. What’s he gonna do, call the school?

There’s a flash of something in his eye. The hairs on the back of your neck raise, but you ignore it. For all you know, Mr. Vanger is best friends with your principal and is going to rat you out.

“Naughty,” he says quietly.

Your heart flutters, to your amazement. Okay, so maybe Mr. Vanger is kind of bizarrely hot, but he’s way too old for you. He’s like one of your teachers. Anyway, his type is sophisticated, posh ladies like Bedelia, not some high school kid with holes in her jeans.

“Sorry?” you say, not quite as bold as he is to flirt back. Oh God, what if he wasn’t flirting?? You do not need to embarrass yourself in front of one of the most prominent businessmen in Toronto.

He acts as though neither of you said anything. “Tell me a young lady as bright as yourself is planning on continuing her education?”

“I’m going to the University of Toronto in September.”

“What will you be studying?”

“English Literature and French Studies. I want to study abroad in France in my second year,” you say. Part of you feels fake because, really, you wish you could tell someone that you have no clue what to do with your life.  _I like computer games and chocolate. Other than that… la vie est une mystère!_

“Ambitious,” he says, mirroring your neutral tone. “You must be under a lot of pressure.”

You shrug. You know he’s just being nice, but yeah, you are under a lot of pressure to make something of yourself. You kind of wish you had someone to talk to about it.

“There’s a saying in France, perhaps you have heard it?” he says. “Je voudrais flâner avec toi.” Suprisingly, his Swedish accent morphs into a perfect French accent and then back again. _“_ Flâner means to wander around aimlessly without a plan. I was a schoolteacher, briefly, before I became an entrepreneur.”

Half of your brain is spinning at this new information, and the other half is still rational enough to think:  _so that explains the teacher vibes he gives off!_

“I had to flâner before finding what my true calling was. An education doesn’t always come from ivory towers, but I do support the next generation in attaining higher education.” He contemplates your dress, which is sitting on the counter. “Your money would be better spent on your education. Please allow me to give you this dress, as a graduation present.”

Your jaw drops. You don’t want to make a scene in his store by arguing… you don’t know what is going through your mind right now—maybe you just want to escape him and how intimidating he is, but you agree.

“Thank you,” you say, stunned. Your hands are too numb to feel the garment bag he gives you.

He gives you a receipt, but you walk out of there feeling like you stole something. Is Mr. Vanger always that generous? Why would he give a stranger a free dress?

It’s a beautiful, warm day in June, but cold sweat forms on your back. You run back to school, not because you’ll be late, but because some primal, instinctive urge compels you to escape.

You forget to look at the cross walk.

You almost get hit by a car.

Someone tugs you back.

Then the world goes--

* * *

 

                When you wake up, you’re dreaming.

                “Good evening,” Mr. Vanger says cheerily.

                You’re in a small, gray room. Your jean-clad bum is on your ankles, your knees are on concrete and your arms are above your head.

                Mr. Vanger sits at a small table across the room with a laptop. He’s dressed in his shoes, pants, and dress shirt from real life. Trust your subconscious to be boring.

                The door is to your right. You stand up—

                But you ankles and wrists are shackled. The chains, attached to pegs hammered into the wall, are too short to let you move right now. Well, maybe you’re not trying hard enough.

                You realize that Mr. Vanger has been writing something with charcoal on a piece of paper at the table. He picks up the paper and shows you a sketch of yourself, so alarmingly realistic you wonder if it’s in fact a photograph. The only difference is that, in the drawing, your hair is down and your shirt is off. But, really, you know your hair is still up and--

                You look down.

                Oh.

                Where have your shirt and bra gone?

                See, this is why this has to be a dream. You laugh, shaking your hair out of your eyes. If this were real life, you would feel pain in your knees from the concrete. The cool thing about lucid dreams is absolute freedom.

                “I used up half a stick of charcoal, just for your hair,” he says. His gaze glides from the sketch to your hair that cascades messily down your back and over your breast. “I could have kept your hair up and saved myself the charcoal but, I regret to say I have been at the mercy of brunettes since I was a lad.”

                “Oh,” you say, receptive to his good-natured tone. You look at the door. “Do you have a bathroom?”

                “Thank you for allowing me to draw you.”

“Um, you’re welcome.” You don’t remember consenting, but that’s how dreams work—you forget certain parts, right?

There’s a package of about 30 plastic water bottles under the table.

“I’m venturing into new technology, although my heart will always belong to paper. I like to take my time, when I can.” He angles the laptop towards you and clicks on something. Then, he says, “Oh, forgive me. You must be thirsty.” He breaks a water bottle free from its siblings and walks over to hand it to you.

                You go to reach for it but—

                As if he himself has forgotten that your hands are bound above your head, he asks, “Would you like me to open this for you?”

                “Y—yes, please.”

                He cracks open the lid and angles the neck of the bottle gently against your lips. He lets you take a long drink until you nod for him to remove the bottle.

                He tilts the bottle down so you have a pause to swallow, but then he says, “I’m worried about you. You haven’t had anything to drink all afternoon.” He keeps the bottle against your lips and tilts it up again, keeping it there until you finish the bottle.

                “Lovely,” he says, caressing your ear through your hair. You shiver, but his touch feels nice and the water was refreshing.

                “My apologies. These bottles are rather small.” He puts the empty bottle neatly on the table and takes another fresh one from the package.

                With his guidance, you drink another two bottles. Halfway through the fourth bottle, you choke and he pulls the bottle away.

                “Okay,” you say, trying not to burp. How embarrassing. You look down, sure that your shirt must have returned by now.

                Your bare breasts are still exposed to Mr. Verger. You try to lean your head forward so you hair covers your nipples. If this is a dream, why are you cold?

                You inhale a little shakily and catch a remnant of the wonderful way he smells. It smells like he showered under a rainbow this morning.

                He drinks the rest of the water from your bottle, his lips in the exact same place yours were. If he had poisoned the water, why would he be drinking it? See, you can still trust him.

“90% of my customers require shapewear beneath their dresses,” he says. “That’s an approximate figure, of course, and rather generous.”

His gaze is slipping up and down your bare torso. You don’t remember taking off your shirt for him. In fact, you hate when people look at you. So why are you half naked, alone in a room with him? You try to recall how you decided to come in here.

“But you don’t require a stitch of shapewear,” he says quietly. “You are absolutely perfect.” He inhales, deep and long, as if he can smell you from all the way over there. “You will likely tire of me soon enough, but I can’t emphasize enough how much of a gift you are.” He clicks on the laptop again, but pauses. “Unless you’d like to hear it.”

“Hear what?” You ask. You can’t figure out why your brain isn’t focusing on his lovely voice. The door handle seems so far away, when in reality it is only a few feet.

There’s an icon on his laptop screen that looks like a teeny clapperboard. Along with all the typical Microsoft Office Suite icons. He was busying himself until you woke up… So you’ve been here for awhile.

He gets up—for an instant you’re reminded of a lion pouncing, but it’s gone in a flash and then he’s kneeling in front of you the way compassionate teachers did when you were in elementary school. “Hear me tell you how perfect you are.”

He’s making himself approachable. He seems reasonable. “Where are we?”

“You are a guest in my home. You are welcome here anytime you wish.”

“Is—is this it?”

He chuckles. People laugh during nice conversations, right? “We are in my special basement. I also have my wine cellar in here, next to this room. My bedroom is above us. And above that, I expect there will be full moon tonight. Perhaps we can watch it together. Although it would be purely for your benefit; even something as magnificent as the moon would pale in comparison to your beauty.”

You blink. “Um. Oh.”

His eyes are warm with a hint of self-deprecation. “I knew you’d grow tired of this.”

“Oh—no, I’m not… I’m just, like, shocked.”

His eyebrows raise barely a fraction, invitingly.

“Um… like, at your view of me, and of, um…” You try to gesture to your surroundings but your hands stay chained to the wall. The wall feels very real and it’s stayed in the same place this whole time.

“Forgive me, I would have decorated. I’m afraid I have been selfish, for as long as I have you, I have all the decoration I need.” His gaze bisects your body. “Even half of you would brighten a swamp.

“I have visited the Louvre countless times. One day I will take you there, perhaps this winter while you are on Christmas holidays, if you would like. It doesn’t matter how much money I donate, they still won’t let me touch Venus de Milo. You’d think they’d make an exception for me.” He looks down with a smile.

You dip your head forward, kind of wanting to touch your forehead to his, although when you inhale, his breath doesn’t smell like anything. It’s as if he doesn’t eat, or has waited all day to eat. Shouldn’t you be hungry too?

You squeeze your thighs together. Maybe you can’t feel hungry on a full bladder. Or maybe adrenaline is suppressing your appetite. You’re tied up in a room with a strange man. Hmm. It’s like those word puzzle books you used to read as a child.

“I could steal Venus de Milo from France and put you in her place and those good Parisians wouldn’t know the difference. Well,” he says. “I’d have to figure out what to do with your arms.”

“It looks like I’ve stuck them to the wall. Or someone has stuck them to the wall,” you say, wiggling your numb arms.

“Oh, yes, that was me. Thank you for accommodating my wishes.” He places a light kiss on your forehead.

“You’re welcome,” you say, a little dizzy from his kiss.

His gentle fingertips trace a river down your hair and brush feather-light for only a second against your nipple. His hand stops near your lower abdomen. His abdomen rises and falls steadily, his breathing rhythmic and soothing.

“You have the perfect neck. Perfect breasts,” he says. His gaze slips up your arms. “Even your goosebumps are perfect. I can’t believe I found such a perfect doll. You even delivered yourself to me. A man could not ask for a lovelier gift.” He tilts his head forward towards your hair. “You washed your hair this morning. I will ask you kindly to refrain from bathing while you are a guest in my home. With every day that passes, your scent will grow lovelier. This would please me tremendously.”

His hands are hovering around your body without actually touching you. You do have enough leeway in the chains to let yourself fall into his hands, but you’re not sure if that’s what you’re meant to do.

Do you want his hands on you? You’re trying to figure out how your wishes fit into this puzzle.

“Now, you asked to use the washroom, yes?”

You nod.

“Would you care to watch a video first? It’s quite short, I assure you.”

You hang your arms for as much relief as you can, but they still rest above your head, useless. Why is he asking you for permission when you don’t have a —?

You don’t have a—

The room fuzzes out.

His thumb and forefinger touch your chin tenderly, bringing your focus back to him. “I’m afraid I’ve bored you, haven’t I?”

“No,” you stammer.

He smiles and brings the laptop over so you can watch it together. He clicks on the clapperboard icon. There are many, many files, but he clicks on one and opens it up.

It is a small room that you’ve never seen before, at least not from that angle. Or perhaps the room is familiar. It looks like a changing room, only the camera is angled from the bottom corner of the room.

A young woman wearing your clothes walks into the room holding a river of black satin. The woman strips down to a striped bra and white panties.

You look down at your bare breasts, trying to remember what bra you wore today. You can’t even remember what shirt you wore, what you ate for breakfast…

The camera angle is horrible. The woman changes into a long black dress and the camera somehow manages to film up the slit, revealing the woman’s white cotton bikini briefs. She bends down to retrieve her phone from her purse and the lighting is unflattering enough to reveal the outline of her underwear beneath the fabric of the dress. She takes a photo of herself in the mirror.

“You are naughtier than I thought,” he says. “I explicitly forbid video recording devices in my change rooms. And here you are, taking a photograph of yourself. How should I punish you?”

“That’s not me. That can’t be me.” Your throat feels like chalk. “Who filmed this? This—this is illegal, or it’s an actress.”

“If I didn’t have a weakness for brunettes with your exact proportions, I would have turned you into the police.” From his pants pocket, he retrieves a little card that looks like a driver’s licence. The photo on it looks like your face. It actually looks a lot like your driver’s licence. “I have your full name and address, unfortunately. But I had to know who I was dealing with, for my own safety, before I invited you into my home.” He taps the driver’s licence against his teeth thoughtfully. “Do you understand?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “I need the bathroom. Let me go.”

“You’re being very patient. Thank you.”

He reaches into his pocket. For a moment, you think he’s going to grab a key and unlock you, but he just puts the licence back in his pocket.

He clicks on another video file.

“You said one video,” you say, and it takes all your effort to sound like you’re not pleading.

“I’ve taken advantage of your kindness. Perhaps you’ve finally grown tired of me.” He pulls a black piece of metal from his other pocket and presses a button on it and a blade appears.

Oh, a switchblade. Your father used to bring one of those along when your family would go camping, back when you were very young. You almost forgot about that memory. You kind of wish you had your mom and dad with you right now…

He glances at you inquisitively.

“Oh.”

“I apologize.” He puts the knife back in his pocket. “That must have scared you.”

“Yes, it did.”

“Were you afraid when you watched that video?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you for being honest with me. It gives me confidence in the strength of our relationship. I need to be able to trust you, and your disregard of my change room rule has made me wonder how you can ever win back my trust.

“Your only punishment will be to watch the next video. And then I’ll take you to the washroom and we can gaze at the moon together, hmm? What do you say, my doll?”

You nod.

He opens up the file.

The camera is angled from the side. The opposite wall is a bland, unfamiliar colour. There is a piece of furniture that looks like a toilet. A woman wearing your clothes—

You shake your head. “No.”

The camera is too close to capture the woman’s face, but it films the curves of her breasts beneath her shirt and the white panties that slip down her legs along with her jeans.

“I’ve watched this too many times to count already,” he says. “I must admit I am embarrassed that my staff did not restock what they should have.”

A giant hand obscures the camera for a moment, then retreats.

The camera was in the toilet paper dispenser. How small was it that you couldn’t have seen it? You glance around your surroundings, dizzy. You had doubts that the woman in the first video was you but, weirdly, not being able to see your face in this second video makes you more convinced that it is you. Because you could be anybody.

He has dozens upon dozens of other video files. How many other women has he done this to?

If it was just you, maybe you could move on. But not when…

From one of your literature classes, you remember the character of Scheherazade, the woman who confronted the deadliest, most powerful man in her nation to save the lives of her fellow women.

You have to do something. That is the answer to the puzzle.

                “I haven’t posted your videos online yet,” he says. “And I don’t think I will. They are too precious to me. You are unlike the others. You’re perfect.” Abandoning the laptop, his hands ghost around your breasts and he gently brings his mouth to your neck. “Although it does mean a loss in potential profits. My videos are incredibly popular and profitable. But it is a sacrifice I am willing to make for you, my perfect doll.”

                His hands slip down to your abdomen and he unbuttons your jeans, tugging them down your legs as best he can. He takes out his switchblade and cuts your jeans off with the precision of a surgeon when they can’t go down any more. He stares at your white panties reverently.

                He bites your neck, hard enough to cut off your air supply for a moment. You clench your jaw so you won’t whimper.

                “Please scream for me, you’d be so perfect at it,” he says. “We have the house to ourselves, and my special basement is soundproof.” He kisses down your breasts, his lips tugging at your hair. “You’re so beautiful.” He fists his hands in your hair, messing it up even more.

                He kisses all the way down your torso, murmuring, “Give me a dark-haired angel who smells like you any day, and I’d never leave the house. I’m yours, my perfect doll. All yours.”

                You’re squeezing your thighs together so he can’t place his face between them.

                He applies gentle pressure to your bladder, his face over your pubic bone.

                You squeeze your thighs shut harder.

                But then you glance at the laptop. Would water damage destroy the video files?

                He bites the little white bow off the top of your panties. You expect him to spit it out, but after several moments go by, you wonder if he ate it.

                “Everything about you is perfect,” he says. “Please let me eat you.”

                He takes his hands away from your bladder, but then he forces your knees apart long enough to place his face against your pussy. The pressure of his soft lips and tongue makes you groan. You squeeze your thighs together, hoping he’ll suffocate.

                He presses down on your bladder, mumbling something against your pussy. The vibrations feel alien.

                “Please don’t,” you try to say as evenly as possible, teeth clenched.

                His tongue slips around your panties to lick up your bare folds. His mouth is warm and wet and it’s like sliding on a fluid throne. You bite your lip to keep from moaning, but—

                He presses on your bladder hard enough to make you release.

                You close your eyes and turn your head away as best you can, ashamed and embarrassed. You pray it’s over soon, although there is so much fluid, it feels like it lasts forever.

It feels so good to finally be able to empty yourself, though, little by little.

Your face is burning, but you open your eyes when you feel totally empty.

You ended up soaking your panties and his face. Urine soaks the floor and has seeped over to his laptop, surrounding it. The screen is black.

Your heart quickens. You pray that it’s damaged.

With the switchblade, he cuts off your panties at a dry area near your hip. He pulls a little re-sealable plastic bag from his pants pocket and slips the damp fabric inside, sealing it shut.

“I wouldn’t dream of selling that, either,” he says. “I want to own every part of you. Even the parts you don’t realize you have.”

There’s an incredible pressure in your centre. You’re dying to find out if the video files are corrupted, but the pressure inside hurts.

He wipes his mouth on his sleeve and stares at you the way a wolf stares at a wounded faun, unblinking.

“You want me to finish you,” he says, as if he can read your mind.

Feeling like a pathetic human, you spread your knees so he can apply his delicious tongue to you again.

With the knife, he slashes a hole in his pants and frees his erection.

You turn your face away. “No,” you try to say firmly, but it comes out shaky.

He’s got one hand on the knife and one hand angles your pelvis towards him.

He was so reasonable before.

Every puzzle

has/answer?

“Please, Mr. Vanger. I wanted to lose my virginity on grad night. I wanted it to be special. You’ve taken everything from me. Please don’t take this.” You gulp so you can continue sounding as even as possible. “You’ve taken my privacy, my clothes… but those are things I was given after I was born. But my body… it’s the first thing and the last thing I’ll ever truly own. The only thing I’ll ever truly own,” you repeat hollowly.

He places the gentlest of kisses on your lips, maybe the way a boy would have, at your graduation dinner/dance. You close your eyes and imagine slow dancing with your friend’s 19-year old brother. You try to remember when you thought 19 was old.

“I have an answer for you,” he says. “But it would fall on deaf ears. You are not thinking rationally at the moment. How could you? You’re perfect. And perfection is not rational. It’s barely even human.

“I promise you’ll be dead before I cut your arms off.”

You’re shaking. You must have misheard him, surely.

He slides his erection inside you, slowly. You’re so wet, it slips in easily.

Both of you are silent.

He pauses within you. “I didn’t want this to be like last time,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

You still haven’t orgasmed yet, and the pressure built up inside you hurts. “What?” you whimper. You are his, you realize, wet and pathetic.

“With the last girl. She was brunette but not perfect like you. I had to stab her 87 times before I could climax.”

                “With—with your penis?” You feel foolish. He can’t be talking about his knife.

                “Oh, my perfect, innocent angel. Would you like me to thrust into you 87 perfect times… with my penis?"

                It hurts. You swallow a lump in your throat. You stare at his empty wolf eyes so you won’t glance at his knife. “Yes. I want both your hands on me.”

                He drops the switchblade on the concrete floor and runs his palms up and down your body, groaning. “Oh, my very own Venus. You finally belong to me. Count.”

                You slide yourself as best you can up his erection, wincing and dizzy from the searing pain. “One,” you say, wanting to get it over with.

                You’re panting, trying desperately not to scream 23 when he finally brings you to your climax.

                You’re a sobbing mess when you come.

He stares at you reverently. “My angel. Venus, I would do anything for you.”

“Please let me see the moon before I die,” you rasp, breathless.

He is trembling.

You push yourself towards him. At this point, there is no pain, no dreaming, no basement, no graduation, no Earth. “24,” you say, feeling like some fuckable doll.

He pounds into you, gripping your hips for leverage.

You feel brainwashed, and you’re not listening to yourself as you beg him to fuck you, to let him finish in your mouth so you can taste him, so you can feel the ridges of his cock on the inside of your cheeks.

You keep counting and you start screaming when you reach 80. “Please come for me, I love you!”

He pauses, trembling. “You do?”

You can tell you’re shaking because your vision is shaking; you can’t feel your body.

                He brushes your hair away from your face. “I love you too. That’s all I ever wanted.” He kisses you, fiercely, biting into your lip, drawing blood. You kiss him back just as fiercely. You know you’ve gone insane, but it’s amazing what the human brain can survive.

                You glance at the laptop and start giggling. “You’ve made backup copies,” you guess.

                “How did you know, my angel?”

                “Because you’re a genius.”

                He removes one glorious hand from your body and picks up the laptop. He hurls it across the room and it smashes against the wall. “I’m taking you to Sweden with me. You have to meet my parents.”

                He’s talking about his parents and he’s still hard inside you. You giggle even harder. More urine leaks out of you, which only makes you laugh so hard that you’re gasping.

                His eyelids lower as he watches you shake with laughter. “You are perfect.” His mouth slowly opens, like an alien is controlling his jaw.

                You open your jaw too, copying him. He’s your teacher, and you have to do everything he does. Well, you don’t have to—but you’re choosing to.

                You have a—

                Choice!

                You try desperately to catch your breath. He cups your breasts to stop them from trembling along with the rest of your body.

                When he orgasms, you feel how wet and warm his come is inside you. It leaks out onto the concrete, along with all your other fluids.

                You try to nestle against his chest as best as possible, but you’re stuck to the wall.

                With the key from his pocket, he unlocks the shackles from your wrists and ankles and then cradles you in his lap, one arm under your knees and the other arm behind your back.

                You wrap your arms around his broad, hard shoulders. “You rescued me,” you breathe, dizzy enough to feel like you could fall asleep. He’s happy, so you’re happy.

                "I know, my angel,” he says. “I knew I’d find you.”


End file.
